Letters from the Road
by God's Broken Dreamer
Summary: On the run from Death Eaters in the Forest of Dean, Hermione Granger takes to writing letters as a coping mechanism. If only she could have predicted where, or rather, with who, they'd end up. Set during Deathly Hallows, canon compliant up to that point.
1. Chapter 1

**Letters from the Road**

Summary: On the run from Death Eaters in the Forest of Dean, Hermione Granger takes to writing letters as a coping mechanism. If only she could have predicted where, rather, with who they'd end up.

Disclaimer: As per usual, all credit goes to J. K. Rowling, I own nothing except the productions of my own pen.

* * *

 _To whoever picks this up,_

 _Put on paper, that seems rather silly, but it's the best I've got. Magic can be unpredictable at the best of times and modified experimental charms even more so. I digress. This paper is charmed to wind up in the hands of someone on our side who needs it, but just in case, I'm not going to say anything that could lead you to us. I'm not even sure why I'm writing this and I do hope this hasn't ended up in the hands of some poor muggle. If so, I apologize, but I am about to open your eyes._

 _There is a war going on. Not one you can see, at least not without looking carefully and squinting just so. Murders are nothing to scoff at, but the sad truth is that they're just as commonplace in our world as they are in yours, mine I suppose, if we're being honest. Although, it seems as though I left that world behind forever ago now._

 _I guess I ought to tell you something about the charmed piece of paper you're holding. See, I got the idea originally from a cursed diary my friend had the misfortune to discover once and then I thought about those silly coins from fifth year. (and how useful they've turned out to be, even if not everyone keeps them anymore) Anyways, I modified a protean charm with some inspiration from the 'snake-faced prat,' as Harry likes to call him, and a little touch of the Marauders. Which, even if you went to Hogwarts, I sincerely doubt you've heard of. The important information is that these words will be accessible only to you, the holder of this parchment. I've spelled it so that if anyone else tries to read them, they'll appear to be notes from **Hogwarts: A History**. If you're a muggle, just tell someone it's a fiction novel._

 _I sometimes wish I was still at school for this year, like I was supposed to be. I suppose most eighteen year olds dream of gallivanting off in their final year to go save the world, but I prefer it not need saving at all. Harry would hate it if he heard me calling him the "chosen one" but it's true. He's the only hope we have right now after Dumbledore...well after Dumbledore is enough said about that. Maybe you know about that, and maybe you don't, it's perhaps better if you don't know the whole story, and I don't want to be the one who has to tell you._

 _I'm sorry, this is probably a rather lot to take in, whoever you are. I just needed some sort of outlet. We're all on edge here, wondering when the next enemy is going to appear just where we don't need them. We've got the bloody locket but we can't do anything about it except wear it, and that's no pleasant undertaking. Imagine wearing a Dementor around your neck, it's a similar feeling. I'm even just as afraid that it's going to take my soul. I've no idea how Umbrage stood the thing for more than a second, though the similarities between her winning personality and a dementor are perhaps better left unsaid. I wish we had broken every plate in her office. I wish I could lead her to the centaurs all over again and I wish she had never come back._

 _That's a horrible thing to wish upon a person isn't it? This beastly thing hanging from my neck is to blame, I'm sure. Or perhaps this war is changing us in ways we couldn't have imagined._

 _I wish I'd been a little more careful at the ministry and kept Yaxley from grabbing me. I know the boys don't blame me, at least out loud, but it was my fault we lost our base and we can't go back. Not now, maybe not ever depending on how things go. Everything is looking very hopeless right now. We've no idea where to look next and no real clue what we're doing._

 _Perhaps I'd best stop writing before I get any more maudlin._

 _Best of British to you,_

 _Hermione Granger_

* * *

At first, Draco wasn't sure what he was reading. By the time he'd reached the signature he wasn't sure if he wanted to burn the paper or cry. Something had obviously gone horribly wrong with whatever spell Granger had cast on the letter for it to end up with someone like him. He should forward it to his father immediately and let him start working on cracking the protective spells around it. Perhaps it would bring them back into favor with the Dark Lord and maybe his life would be less of a living hell.

He laughed and it was brittle. Ever since he'd failed and Snape had...well ever since Dumbledore he hadn't been sleeping well. Not that he'd been sleeping well before then either, what with the constant worry of being caught, the strange sensation that the old coot had known exactly what was going on, and the knowledge that his failure would doom his family it was no surprise.

What _was_ surprising was that he was managing anything this year at all. Eating was a chore, class was abysmal, he was largely hated by his professors and the students alike, the Carrows took great delight in tormenting him at every turn, and Crabbe and Goyle, the traitors, were sucking up to them at every opportunity.

Every dark spell they lapped up from the Carrow's teachings made him want to vomit, although before the past year he likely would've been right there beside them. He didn't know if he wanted to vomit because of them, or more because of himself. It was easy to look back in a situation like this and wish that he had made different choices, except that with who he was and who his parents were this would always have been his choice. Regardless of how much the thought of all the things he would have to do to stay alive made his stomach churn, Draco would have to have been born a different person to avoid the fate that was now staring him in the face.

Like this bloody stupid letter from bleeding heart Granger that he still hadn't decided what he was going to do with. He ran his eyes over the page again. A good Death Eater wouldn't have hesitated, but he'd already established that he wasn't one of those. She sounded so bloody hopeless. It was nothing like the Granger he knew. He rubbed his jaw in remembrance of old pain and smiled. No one had ever hit him quite like that before. She'd slapped him so hard he'd staggered and then she'd unleashed a tide of vitriol that could have put the dark lord to shame. In retrospect, he was sure he'd deserved it, but at the time it had sharpened his resolve in his prejudices.

Then had come Dumbledore and his bloody stupid talk of second chances. As though there had ever been any chance in the first place for someone like him. "Only dark wizards belong in slytherin" Bloody Weasel had said it the first day of school and it was by and large the viewpoint of the rest of the world. How was he to compete with the expectations of the world when the expectations of his parents had been no different? Perhaps aspirations was a better word.

At first he'd been proud and by the time he'd realized this wasn't just a fun schoolyard feud, he was Marked, Harry Potter was stalking him through the school, and his mother was having hysterics every time he came home. Then Dumbledore was dead and Charity Burbage and he'd had to torture Rowle. Draco shuddered; he never wanted to use the Cruciatus on anyone ever again, not that there was any room in his life for what he wanted.

He growled and crumpled the letter down into a tight little ball, which he then threw into the fireplace. He drew his wand to light it and froze. Granger said she'd spelled it to find someone who needed it. Maybe he did need it. Draco didn't know her definition of need, per se, but maybe he could at least use the letter to find out something useful. Yes, it would be a shame to destroy something that could potentially be the key. Key to what, he didn't know, still unsure how he was rooting for this war to end now that he was seeing the potential future first hand. But, he could figure that out later.

Realizing he'd been standing with his wand pointed at the fireplace for what was likely minutes, Draco flushed, hastily sheathing it and scooping the crumpled paper from the ashes. He carried it to his desk, smoothing it carefully before reaching for a quill. Staring unseeing at the page for a minute, he cracked his knuckles and dipped his quill in the ink. "All right, Granger, let's see how this works."

* * *

 _(futurus persevero)_

 _~GBD_


	2. Chapter 2

And now the nitty-gritty of our story begins.

If you are expecting lemons anytime soon, forgive me, but while they will occur, it's not until much later in the story. This fic will be a very slow burn, not least of all because I'm following canon closely for quite a while and they spend most of book seven physically separate. In addition, I've never been one to believe that hate can turn into love overnight and with one eye opening moment, so prepare for a long, but hopefully still entertaining, journey.

A word of caution to this tale: while I am trying to remain as true to canon as possible, you will begin to notice slight changes and an eventual likely total derailment. Do not expect the same characters to die, if only because I am a sentimental fool and I just can't let some of them go. There will be character death (here's your warning) because war is messy, but I hope it remains meaningful even if I change how and to who it happens.

* * *

At the first drop of ink from his quill, the paper rippled, the words running down the page and disappearing as new words took their place. He laughed when he realized they were directions. "Of course, Granger. Wouldn't expect an insufferable know-it-all like you to trust a bloke to know how to write a bloody letter. That's what you get for being friends with the Weasel."

The words on the page formed a cute little rhyme. Draco sneered.

 _To send a reply:_

 _Fold me into an aeroplane and then let me fly_

"Granger, what in Merlin's name is an aeroplane?" He skimmed the page again, but the poem was fading without revealing the secrets of what an airplane was. "Typical." Draco tapped the feather of his quill against his lips with an irritated sigh. What was he supposed to say to the most insufferable die-hard swot he had ever met? _Dear Granger,_ he mentally composed. _I'm sorry you seem to be having a difficult time wherever you've bloody ended up, but the rest of us aren't exactly relaxing at school either. You're not the only one with a hard life._ For some reason, he couldn't imagine that letter would be well received.

 _Dear Granger,_ he tried again. _Do you really think there are people who need directions on writing a letter? Perhaps you should spend less time with Weasley. He's poisoning your brain._ No, no. He probably shouldn't start off by insulting both her and the Weasel.

"Come on, Draco," He groaned. "Can't you come up with anything non-combative to start?" When staring at the page for another minute resulted in no further ideas, Draco pushed back his chair and stood in disgust. He'd not exactly paid much attention to Granger throughout the years, except to note that she was insufferable, she'd had rather large teeth at one point, no thanks to him, and that as the muggle-born best friend of Potter and Weasley he should do his absolute best to make her life at Hogwarts hell. Also, that she was better in school than him, as his father loved to punish him for. Honestly, what were you supposed to say to the person who you'd done your best to make hate you irreparably? _Granger, Sorry your life sucks and it's partially my fault._ Not going to happen. He'd follow through on his intentions to burn the letter before he ever wrote anything close to that.

Maybe...maybe he could ask Myrtle for help. He hated to admit that he'd let anyone see him vulnerable, even if they were dead, but Myrtle had been half the reason he'd survived the previous year. [1] Draco snatched the paper from the desk and shoved it into his pocket. Yes, he'd go ask Myrtle what he should write.

* * *

The 2nd floor girl's lavatory remained in the same condition it had been in since the previous year, with mostly shattered sinks and damaged walls, remnants of his duel with Potter. The floor was once again flooded, meaning Myrtle must've been throwing a tantrum recently. Draco had the oddest impression that he could see himself lying in the water and bleeding out if he squinted, although he was obviously upright and whole. It seemed strange, that after everything he'd been through lately, he was somehow still disturbed by something that had added up to nothing more than a corridor brawl. Maybe it was that he'd never expected such dark magic to come from Potter, since he'd always been such a noble bleeding-heart bastion of the light.

"So...you're back."

Draco winced. Clearly, Myrtle was going to be in one of _those_ moods. It was probably partially his fault. He'd never come back after that duel. First, because he'd been recovering in the hospital wing, and then because his moment to take Dumbledore had appeared rather suddenly and after that he hadn't felt particularly able to face anyone who thought well of him. Especially the ones who'd been congratulating him for his 'victory'.

"Hi, Myrtle."

"Hmph." The ghost turned her translucent nose up at him and floated away through one of the stall doors. He sighed.

"Myrtle, I'm sorry I didn't come back earlier." He paused, hoping she'd answer him and he wouldn't have to explain. Sometimes an apology was enough to satisfy Myrtle, but it seemed as though she was going to be stubborn. "I was in the hospital wing for...for a while. And then, that...situation I told you about came to a head."

She sniffed from within the stall. "I thought you had died."

"Oh, Myrtle," Draco took a hesitant step forward.

"I thought you had died!" Her head emerged from the door, floating furiously in front of him. "And that you had decided to go on and leave me alone again. Or you were avoiding me. Well, I was thinking that if you died I would share my toilet with you, [2] but maybe you were too hard-headed to face me."

"No, Myrtle, I...I'm sorry." Draco didn't want to explain himself again. He didn't particularly enjoy thinking about the events that had conspired to ensure he hadn't returned before now and had no desire to rehash them for an audience, even one that had seen him at one of his worst moments. "I...uh, was hoping for some advice?" He swore he saw her pigtails perk.

"Advice?" She popped fully through the door. "Has that bully been picking on you again?"

"What? No, I mean, yes. I mean, that's not what I need advice on." He shoved his hand through his hair. "It's about a girl."

"A girl?" She dragged the word out in that obnoxious way that was usually used by little sisters, not that Draco knew anything about what having a sibling was like.

"Yes, um, I'm trying to write her a letter."

"Is it a confession?" Her voice took on a dreamy quality.

"Er, no. I'm trying to write a letter to Granger, but I can't figure out-"

"Granger!" She shrieked with laughter. "Wait until everyone finds out she had a tail!" [3]

"I beg your pardon?"

"She," Myrtle snickered. "Turned herself into a half-cat."

"Uh, alright." He decided he'd leave that untouched for now. He was fairly certain that if it were true he would have heard of it somehow. Students weren't exactly the people who were going to keep a magic accident of that nature quiet, not with the gossip train in this place anyway. "I'm trying to write a letter to Granger, but I can't figure out how I should start it."

"Dear Granger might be a good place."

Draco glared. "Yes, I'd rather had that part already."

The ghost shrugged. "Start with something normal."

"We've had somewhat of an adversarial relationship, Myrtle. Normal would be spewing insults and making cutting remarks about her bloodline."

"You could apologize."

"Well, I've tried writing 'Dear Granger, I'm sorry I wished you dead and besmirched your name so many times" but for some reason I don't think she'd be happy to receive it."

"Then pretend you didn't. Try being normal. What would you say if you hadn't done all of that?"

He paused, taken aback. "I mean, I think she must be bloody brilliant. She's outdone me in every class there is, far as I can tell, and I've heard the lectures from my father to prove it."

"So start there."

He scoffed. "She'd not believe it, coming from me."

Myrtle crossed her translucent arms and glared. "You asked for my help. If you're not going to accept it, I've better things to be doing with my time."

"What, like sitting in an S-bend?"

She sniffed. "If that's how you're going to be, I'm leaving."

Draco thought fast, not particularly in the mood to apologize for something that was true. "Do you know what a paper aeroplane is?" Sometimes it was possible to distract Myrtle from her tantrums before she got them going.

"A paper aeroplane? Those things are killer diller!"

"They're what?"

"The bees knees. Um…"

"You know what? Never mind. Killer diller, got it."

"Let's see….a paper airplane. It's been ages since I've made one of those. If I remember correctly…"

* * *

In the end, Draco was wandering the halls still not quite sure what to write to Granger and also unsure what a paper airplane was, although he had a better idea than he had when he left. The third time he'd passed through a seventh-floor corridor, a door sprung into existence. He stopped, looking over his shoulder at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. "Ah." He stared imperiously at the door, trying to decide whether he'd really been thinking about the letter that hard and if it was worth finding out what the room had provided if he had. In the end, he didn't really have much to lose. Perhaps the room would have a better idea than he did.

If the room didn't necessarily have a better idea of what to write, it did have a better idea of how to do it, providing an open, airy room with large windows, plush chairs scattered around, and an ornate aged wooden desk which he suspected of being ebony. There were so many shelves of books lining the walls, Draco had to wonder whether the library was suddenly barren. He rather suspected that Granger would've loved this room, had she a chance to see it. Of course, he thought she probably had seen it before, with how much time she'd spent here in fifth year. He doubted she'd only come here during the DA's meetings.

He smoothed the letter out on the desk again, once more considering what he should write.

 _Dear Granger,_

 _Myrtle says I should start with something normal. I don't exactly know what normal means for us. I think she meant something like hello, but if we're being normal I think this is where I'm supposed to call you a mudblood. That word seems so ugly now, even though I used to delight in calling you that._

Nope. No. Definitely not sending anything like that. Hermione bloody Granger did not deserve his honesty. She hadn't earned it.

"Bugger it. I've wasted too much time on Granger as it is." he growled. And with that, scribbled a few unimportant lines on the parchment. He hesitated a moment over how to sign it and whether he should attempt to hide who he was. Granger was smart. He was reasonably sure that she'd figure out his identity if they corresponded enough, but he was also sure that she likely wouldn't write him another letter regardless. Decision made, Draco signed with an elaborate flourish and set out to turn the paper into an airplane.

Three incorrect attempts later, he crushed the parchment down into a ball, slammed the window open, and hurled it into the air. His chest heaved as he watched the wretched thing soar toward the ground for a few moments before remembering he couldn't leave the bloody thing lying around somewhere without potentially risking Granger's, and therefore Potter's, life.

Draco swore. " _Accio Letter"_ The little ball came zipping back up toward his hand, until it hovered before his wand. He snatched it out of the air, grumbling uncharitable things about Granger and aeroplanes.

"I swear, Myrtle, if this next attempt isn't right, I'm coming back there and figuring out some way to kill you again."

* * *

Hermione curled tighter into a miserable ball within her blankets and tried to remember what it was like when everything was alright and her world, her included, wasn't falling apart. Ron had left. He had _left,_ stormed off into the night without a care for how important what they were doing could be. And even worse, he'd expected her to come with him! As though her promise to Harry had been meaningless words she could brush aside when they became inconvenient, as his had apparently been.

She'd known when she started planning for this that it wasn't going to be easy. For one thing, she'd had to turn her parents into completely different people who would now never know her even if they passed her on the street. Did Ronald stinking Weasley think she'd done all that on a whim? If she hadn't wanted to go with Harry, she could've gone into hiding with her parents and have done, just as she'd planned everyone to suspect.

Yes, she'd confided in him that she'd been disappointed that Harry hadn't known as much as they'd hoped, but the three of them had wandered blindly through all their previous 'save-the-world' quests too. It couldn't possibly be unexpected that Dumbledore hadn't seen fit to furnish them with a dissertation on exactly how to win the war. For starters, as wise and omniscient as Dumbledore had always appeared to be, no one man could actually know everything. And, as his recent demise had proven, Dumbledore had been just a man in the end.

Hermione tried to imagine how they'd be stumbling around now if she hadn't thought to try summoning horcrux books the day of Dumbledore's funeral. They already were stumbling around now, if she had to be honest. Although they'd been successful retrieving the locket, they were still at a loss for how to destroy it, and they hadn't had a lead on another horcrux in over a month. A month was a very long time to have a mini-dementor hanging from your neck, as evidenced by Ron's complete and utter blow up and the fact that the idiot had just up and left.

Another sob welled up and caught in her throat. She hoped he had gone home, that he was safe. Hermione couldn't bear the thought of losing anyone else, especially not when she wasn't around to prevent it. How could he just abandon them like that?

Tears dripped from her eyes. Hermione wanted to blame the horcrux for the fact that she couldn't seem to stop dwelling on Ron, but she wasn't even wearing it. She liked to think of herself as a logical person, not entirely ruled by her emotions, and yet ever since they'd left Grimmauld Place she felt like that was all that drove her: panic for the boys, impatience at how long this was taking, a growing sense of hopelessness as the reality of how difficult the task they'd taken on was set in. Needless to say, the year was off to a rough start and no amount of color-coded scheduling was going to bring control back into her life.

A soft glow emanated from within her beaded bag, interrupting her moping. Hermione stared in confusion. A quick glance at the sneakoscope confirmed that they were still alone out here, or at least, that no one being untrustworthy had wandered by. So what was glowing?

She slid from the chair and dragged the little bag toward her, carefully opening the clasp. A small, glowing paper aeroplane shot from the bag, sailed around the tent and settled carefully before her. Her brows rose. She hadn't expected something that dramatic when she created the charm, but she also hadn't given it much specific direction, just a trigger to make the changes to their copy appear on hers.

Yet, there the letter sat, an innocuous looking paper airplane on her lap. Hermione eyed it with trepidation. She hadn't considered how she would feel if she actually got a response, and now that it had arrived she wasn't prepared to read it. With shaking hands, Hermione unfolded the little airplane and read.

 _Dear Granger,_

 _Did you really turn yourself into a half-cat?_

 _Surely this can't be as bad as hairballs were._

 _Cheers,_

 _D._

She stared incredulously and gave a strangled half-sob half-laugh. Hermione had to admit that, five years after the fact, she wasn't expecting to be confronted with her awful second year polyjuice mistake. Conversely, it could also be considered her amazing second year polyjuice success, since she had successfully brewed the potion and the boys had infiltrated the Slytherin common room, albeit without her.

Still, who could it be? They'd signed only with the letter 'D'. She wracked her brains for possible suspects. It was highly unlikely to be Dedalus Diggle, for one thing he should have no idea of the half-cat incident, and for another he was currently guarding Harry's family and his protections would have made her letter likely unreceivable.

But obviously they had to be a current or recent Hogwarts student, if they knew about that. D….it couldn't be Dean. He was on the run, based on what they'd overheard, and if he'd gotten her letter she figured he would've mentioned it to his companions. Dumbledore was dead, and any letter from him would've been vastly different from whatever this was. Dennis Creevey was as likely to be in hiding as she was, and if the letter were from him she'd expect a bit more hero worship. Colin had filled his head with enough nonsense about the three of them that the poor boy likely thought they walked on water wandlessly.

That left…she shook her head in bemusement, immediately rejecting the idea. Draco Malfoy would never have even received her letter, much less stooped to writing back to one he considered so beneath him. If Draco Malfoy was the one writing her, she'd eat a skiving snackbox.

Pushing the ferret from her brain, Hermione scoured the letter for more clues to the writer's identity. They called her Granger, but that didn't mean anything, especially when scrawling what might have been a hasty, sneaked letter, she didn't blame them for not using the mouthful that was her first name.

Regardless of her suspicions, she wasn't going to get any more from two lines about her time as a half-cat. If she really wanted to know she was going to have to write back. She glanced up at Harry's bunk. If he'd fallen asleep, she wouldn't disturb him with any lights. His days were rough enough, and he'd lost his best friend today too. She'd write tomorrow, she decided.

And maybe, a small, hopeful voice in her head whispered, tomorrow Ron would realize he was being an absolute prat because of the locket and he'd come back. She climbed into her bunk and stared at the roof of the tent. Yes, tomorrow would be a better day.

* * *

(futurus persevero)

[1] As best I can determine, we don't have anything in canon which specifies how often Draco talked to Myrtle, so I'm exercising some creative liberties here. We do know it was often enough that Myrtle remembers being partial to him in Cursed Child.

[2] This line is actually straight from Chamber of Secrets, although she said it there to Harry. I like to think of Myrtle as an equal opportunity flirt.

[3] There is much disagreement on the internet over who knew about Hermione's time as a half-cat. Obviously, the boys and Myrtle knew because they were there, Madam Pomfrey and likely Snape because they treated her, Dumbledore because he was headmaster, but beyond that for the purposes of this story I'm ruling that the student body was largely unaware of the incident.

 _~GBD_


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for the patience on this one. I had a really hard time writing this, particularly because whenever I hit this section of the book I get incredibly irritated with how much crying Hermione does and I couldn't quite decide if I wanted to change that entirely or leave it. I also have had a hugely busy semester and I just graduated (yay me) but I digress. Without further ado, the story._

* * *

Tomorrow was not a better day. After tossing and turning all night, Hermione had stalled in her packing for as long as possible in the hopes that Ron would stroll back into camp in that infuriating way of his, where he pretended that nothing had happened in the first place and Harry just went along with it because he hated being mad at him. In the end, the rising river forced them to apparate away, and disappearing with them, any chance of Ron's return.

As soon as they appeared at their new destination, she sank onto a stump and burst into tears. Harry set about casting the protection spells without a word, bless him, and let her cry as long as she needed.

The day (days?) passed in a haze. They still had no idea where to find the next Horcrux, and no way of destroying the one they had. It hung from her neck like a lead weight. She was always secretly relieved when Harry took it from her, but she found herself wearing it more and more often. Harry looked angrier and more desolate every time she looked at him and she was afraid of what he'd become if she let him wear it longer than a few hours at a time.

In her grief over Ron, she practically forgot about the letter from 'D'. It was only happenstance that she came across it again in her beaded bag, rifling past it while she dug for Phineas Nigellus' portrait one evening. Anything so that Harry and her had a bit of company to keep them from going completely insane.

Hermione stared at the innocent-looking parchment thoughtfully, before sliding it carefully into the pocket of her jumper. There would be plenty of time this evening to ponder the mystery of 'D' and compose another letter.

* * *

Hermione pushed Phineas back into his place in her bag and sighed. She palmed the parchment in her pocket, glancing over her shoulder to ensure Harry wasn't nearby, before pulling it out and staring at it. She once again considered and discarded her suspects for the identity of 'D', it was entirely possible that the author hadn't picked an initial from his own name to sign, after all, it still smarted that she hadn't been able to immediately identify the 'Half-Blood Prince' as Snape, not that Harry had consulted her about his identity.

Hermione drew a quill and a bottle of ink from within her bag. She dipped the quill in the ink and carefully let a drop fall onto the parchment which immediately began to glow softly. She hurriedly stuffed it back into her bag, cursing herself for thinking a light-up parchment was a brilliant idea. When the parchment had finished shining, Hermione unfolded it once more, making a mental note to play with the charm to light it later, and tried to think of something to say.

 _Dear 'D'_

 _Ron is gone. He left us weeks ago. He left me. It seems like he took with him all the light and hope we started this insane quest with. This all seemed easier when we could make plans while sitting on a sofa with Kreacher promising to make us our favorites when we got back._

 _Please let Kreacher be okay._

 _We've been thwarting the snake face prat for our entire scholastic career. Why wouldn't we egotistically assume we could do the unimaginable and take him out for good in a period of somewhere around a month?_

 _I'm tired and it's cold. I feel like I'll never be warm again…_

She tsked in the back of her throat and cleared the parchment with a wave of her wand. "That is quite enough of that." Hermione said firmly. The locket hung from her neck, feeling particularly heavy at the moment. She tested its weight by hefting it in her palm. Likely, the locket was just amplifying everything she was already feeling, including the crushing weight of her failure to keep the golden trio together and her inability to find a way to destroy what she now wore or find the next horcrux.

She did alright during the days, when Harry was around and she needed to keep appearances up for him. She hoped he didn't realize how often she cried herself to sleep, but with how close their quarters were, and how little he, himself, was sleeping, she knew that for a fool's errand.

Hermione chewed on the end of her quill, attempting to find something less maudlin to say. It wasn't a lie to say that everything right now was quite terrible, and "D" _had_ asked, or implied perhaps. She sighed; she needed to write something. "D" had gone unanswered for...at least days. She honestly wasn't sure how much time had passed since Ron had abandoned them, but it was longer than it should take her to answer a letter. Her parents, had they remembered her, would've been quite disappointed. Her lips quirked up, trying to imagine what her parents would say if she told them everything that had happened. Her father wasn't a man prone to physical action, but if she'd told him everything they were facing, he'd probably have tossed her over his shoulder in the mistaken belief that he could protect her from this if he tried enough.

Her lower lip wobbled and she sucked in a harsh breath. It was different missing your parents because you were away at school than missing your parents because you were fighting for your right to exist in a world you had no choice but to be in. Destiny as a concept was balderdash, but there was no question that she was meant to be here, by Harry's side. Even if they failed and they all died, she couldn't imagine a world where she hadn't dared to stand up for what was right. If Ron couldn't feel that way about this, then maybe it was better that he was gone now. Hot tears filled her eyes. Ron was the lighthearted one of their group; without him, she and Harry were floundering. When the Golden Trio was together things just seemed less insurmountable.

Hermione wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Ron was gone and that was that, she couldn't keep dwelling on it and crying about it. She sat back on her heels and dipped her quill in ink once more, trying to think light-hearted thoughts as she set it to the page

* * *

 _Dear 'D',_

 _I will neither confirm nor deny whether or not I spent any time as a Half-Cat in second year._

 _Furthermore, I am certainly not about to confess any scholastic misdeeds to someone who won't sign their correspondence with something more than a single letter._

 _Regardless, I do think this is rather worse than hairballs._

 _Hermione_

* * *

Draco was having a relatively pleasant dream when his room suddenly lit up and a piece of paper hit him in the face. He came awake sputtering, wand drawn, stunning spell at the ready, when that blasted paper aeroplane drew back and poked him in the nose again.

He growled, swiping the letter from the air and shaking it. "Couldn't this have waited until morning? Blasted, insensitive witch! Couldn't have invented a spell that notified of change in some less intrusive way?"

Draco was not known for his pleasant morning disposition, so being woken at all of….he cast a quick _tempus_ , all of 3 in the morning when he already wasn't sleeping well was rather high on his list of things that irritated him. Of course the blasted witch had probably sent her letter now on purpose, just to punish him. In hindsight, that made no sense considering he hadn't signed the letter in an identifying manner. Of course, if Granger had known it was him, the airplane would probably have poked his eyes out instead of poking his nose.

Recalling the crumpled parchment in his hand, Draco eagerly unfolded it, more excited than he wanted to admit. It had seemed for ages as though the Dark Lord had won and this bleak existence was to be his future. When he'd been a child it had been so easy to buy that he'd been born superior, that he deserved more than others by merit of his blood status. Now that he was an adult, living under the reign of a cruel tyrant, he failed to see what was so special about him. It was comforting to know that precious Potter was out there still fighting, that he hadn't fled and left the lot of them to their fate, or been killed quietly. Not that Draco really thought the Dark Lord would kill Potter quietly, but it was still comforting to have concrete evidence that he was doing something, even if, by Granger's account, it was hiding out and trying to figure out what to do with some sort of portable Dementor.

He spent a minute contemplating the possible combat uses of a portable Dementor and trying to decide exactly how someone might have made one, much less how Granger had gotten her hands on it. He swallowed, realizing he was shaking. What if she _had_ figured out it was him and this letter was just full of invective. What if something had happened to Potter and the hope he'd just realized he actually had (guess Granger's spell had picked the right person after all) was about to be crushed under the Dark Lord's heel like everything else about Draco.

He lowered his eyes to the parchment slowly and then frowned, turning it over to check the back in frustration. "That's it, Granger?" He read through the short lines again, frowning even harder. This was...nothing. Impersonal, even. Compared to the last letter, this was the writing of a Sphinx.

He sat back and stared up at the page, expecting it to reveal some new secret, hidden words, anything. The longer he stared, the more he noticed something odd. Darker splotches dotted the surface of the parchment. His brow wrinkled. Draco didn't recall that those had been there before. Maybe Granger had hidden a code? That seemed like an awful lot of extra effort when she claimed to have protectively spelled the parchment to Hades and back and he'd seen no evidence to indicate that was a lie. So what could these dots be?

He pondered the puzzle of the little dots until he fell back asleep and then he pondered it into breakfast, carrying the parchment with him and studying it whilst he ate.

His concentration was unfortunately ruined, however, when Pansy waved her hand in front of his face. Draco lowered the parchment carefully and turned to stare at her, quirking one aristocratic brow imperiously.

She glared at him with a combination of concern and irritation, the latter more than likely due to the fact that, running the past few minutes of outside conversation back in his head, Pansy had called his name several times before resorting to hand-waving. "Draco, have you been crying over your notes of Hogwarts: A History?"

Draco's other brow climbed to join the first. "I beg your pardon?"

She gestured toward the parchment he was holding and he jumped, before realizing she'd said Hogwarts: A History. Obviously Granger's protective spell was working, although he really should've tested that before absentmindedly carrying it with him in front of other people. "Your parchment," she enunciated clearly, giving him a strange look. "Has tear stains on it."

He reared back, aghast. "That's what those little dots are?"

Pansy pursed her lips. "I thought that would be rather obvious, Draco, given my question. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes!" He hurriedly folded the parchment down and shoved it in the pocket of his trousers. "Yes, pans, I am quite all right. But, I borrowed these notes from someone who is apparently not all right and I rather think I ought to check on them now." Draco stood abruptly and strode from the great hall, leaving an ever-more-confused Pansy gaping at his back.

He made a direct path for the seventh floor corridor and paced until the door to the room of requirement appeared.

The room must have thought him rather more stressed than usual, in addition to the comforts of his previous visit, the floor was covered with a particularly plush rug and the walls had tinted themselves a soothing shade of blue, which the books had been rearranged to display artfully between shelves. Draco eyed the walls dubiously before seating himself at the desk, wondering if he ought to say something out loud about the changes. He shook himself hastily, Hogwarts may be a magical castle, but that didn't mean the bloody rooms were sentient. "Get a hold of yourself, Draco. You've got a letter to write to a witch in tears." Saying it out loud it sounded pretty stupid to him, but if a small distraction was the best good deed he could manage right now, it was certainly better than doing nothing to help.

 _Granger,_

 _That's the worst denial I've ever seen. I expected bigger stones from such a paragon of Gryffindor virtue._

He hesitated, considering whether he should point out what Pansy had told him. If he were being gentlemanly he'd pretend he didn't know she'd been crying over her copy of the note. Of course, realistically, when had Draco ever been gentlemanly when Granger was concerned? And even if he had any idea how to do that with her, would that really help?

Her first letter had been the work of desperation, that was obvious. So what was her second? Why had she replied? He couldn't claim his first letter was any work of brilliance, so it therefore followed that Granger wasn't simply venting her thoughts into the world anymore, especially not with such a sparse reply. Had she written back out of some sense of obligation?

Draco tapped the feather of his quill against his lips. It seemed like letters to Granger were always going to involve a great deal of thought followed by a quick, careless scribble after he'd decided he was overthinking it. He shrugged. Why fight what could be tradition? With a tap of his wand, he erased the few lines he'd written and began again.

 _Dear Granger,_

 _You may as well admit it and have done. That denial wasn't nearly convincing enough._

 _You may test your mettle on this one instead: Why have you been crying?_

 _Sincerely,_

 _D_

Draco nodded to himself and sat back in the chair, swinging his long legs up to rest on the desk. If his father could see him now, he'd probably drag him from the chair by his ear. Lucius would never approve of even appearing relaxed. Malfoys held themselves to the utmost standard of behavior at all times. Attitudes like that were the reason his life was a living hell right now. Draco wasn't particularly bothered tossing the whole thing out the window; If Malfoys were supposed to be above reproach in all aspects then he wanted to sully his name in all the ways that would make his ancestors turn in their graves. Maybe that was why he was still writing to Granger. The only problem with all the things that his ancestors would hate was that all of them would likely get him killed in the current state of affairs. He couldn't exactly march up to the Dark Lord and furnish him with a list of all the things he hated about him unless Draco wanted to end the day as a pile of ash.

He whistled tunelessly and folded his arms behind his head. No use dwelling on the inevitable future where he lost his ability to put up with the atrocities the Dark Lord so loved and lost his life in some fool's stand (likely at his own dining room table). So instead, he folded the parchment into an aeroplane, pulled back his hand and let his small hope fly free.

* * *

 _futurus preservo_


End file.
